


shovel strike

by ko_ebii



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: (specifically when ace gets a cauldron lobbed at his head... poor boy), THAT ONE LINE ABOUT HOW HES TRYING TO CHANGE, TW: implied fighting and slightly sour family relations, character study for deuce!!!, cross-posted on tungle ahdhds, his wiki REALLY HURT ME, i did change the dialogue a liiiittle bit though!, it covers his past and explores his motivations for the future hehe, made me cry, there are parts of it at the end covering the prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_ebii/pseuds/ko_ebii
Summary: he wonders if it's worth it, all the fighting and the pain, all the pretending. there is guilt, hidden for years, bursting from his gut into bile he has to swallow back against the feelings so vile he feels ill.he has hit rock bottom. he can almost hear the clink of the shovel.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	shovel strike

the boy stands in the smooth belly of the hill, staring upwards at the peak rising up to engulf him.

his shadow is black against the snow behind him. 

he can hear the footsteps now, coming. he reaches for his shovel. he is not afraid. 

he is digging his own grave. 

*

"deuce," his mother says. "is your face alright?" 

her voice is gentle. the house is too stuffy.

"i'm fine." he snaps the words and doesn't wait long enough to see her flinch before he slams the door to his room. 

*

the bruises are ugly--blue, black, purple, splotches in the different stages of healing--as they dapple over his face like shadows. the dark colour poisons his skin like venom lying just below the surface. he watches himself in the mirror, turning his face to look closer at the bruises. he doesn't feel like hiding them; there's no real way he could do it without wrapping up his entire face like a mummy. 

his mother pretends not to see him when he leaves the room for dinner. 

they have learned, over the years, to act like everything is okay. eyes are averted from injuries, ears turned deaf to warnings and scoldings from teachers, because nothing works. 

sometimes, she attempts to chastise him, but it only gets worse after that. he is angry at her for not understanding--he doesn't learn anything of use, anyway, and school is just a waste of time. he'd rather be dead than another cog in the system, turning and turning for the benefit of other people. 

he tells her so, and she has no argument. she is angry at him, too, for not being a good child. he is nothing like what any parent would want. 

serves her right, he thinks, sometimes, and then punishes himself for it. 

*

there is only the waiting, and it is horrible. 

"you have no hope to get into a good school," one of his teachers says plainly, placing his application papers on the table. he puts them down softly, nothing like the slamming he'd anticipated.

it is quiet. disappointed. 

"i know." 

he would have skipped if he had had a choice. 

the teacher sighs, brushing his hair back. "what do you even want to do in the future?" 

the question gives him pause, but he pretends to brush it off. this is the invisible venom. the uncertainty no amount of fighting and struggling can erase.

when the adrenaline ebbs, what is left?

*

he hears his grandmother's voice over the phone one day. she calls every month, but he's usually not there to hear it. this time, he's sitting with ice to his face. his mother is in the kitchen, and she thinks he's gone. 

"i don't know what to do," he hears his mother saying. her voice is muffled, almost like she's on the other side of the speaker. "i don't know what to do. i don't know how to be a good mother." 

silence. 

"no, mom, i don't know." she pauses, and he hears her breath hitch. 

_it's not your fault,_ deuce thinks, almost dully. 

"he's a good boy, really, but… i don't know how to handle him." 

_abandon me. leave me on the streets. it will be better for you._ it's dramatic, he knows, but it's an image he savours for a moment, bitter on his tongue as he tastes it, rolls it around in his head. 

he hears the crying, and the thoughts halt.

something breaks.

*

he can't stop hearing it in his head that night. the quiet, painful sobs, muffled behind her hand. he can see it--his mother, crouching in the kitchen, biting into her hand to stop the noises. the same woman with those sad, sad eyes. the same woman who makes him food, lets him-- what is she, other than a landlord, if he isn't really a son to her? 

it would be better if she had screamed. it would be better if she had hit him. 

_he's a good boy, really,_

_but--_

he wonders if it's worth it, all the fighting and the pain, all the pretending. there is guilt, hidden for years, bursting from his gut into bile he has to swallow back against the feelings so vile he feels ill. 

he has hit rock bottom. he can almost hear the clink of the shovel. 

*

he washes his face in the morning. the water is cold, sending a shock up his spine. he combs his hair, for once, making sure to get out all the tangles no matter how hard it is. it's difficult to hide the redness of his eyes, but it's inevitable anyway. he does up his uniform, struggling with the buttons. 

"good morning," he murmurs as he walks into the living room. he can feel his heart in his throat. maybe it’s not a good idea after all, maybe he should just turn around and forget he ever tried--

his mother flinches, turning, and he knows she thinks she's dreaming. it's a bit offensive, really--how sloppy does she think he is? 

"you combed your hair," she says, a bit breathlessly, and laughs. he smiles. 

it feels good. 

he is reaching with bloodied hands for the first rock. he is scaling his way back up.

*

he begins to study hard, turning up for classes and restraining himself from starting fights. the anger is still there, but he finds it easier and easier to push it down. it’s worth it, the struggle, if he can just manage to stop. it’s not like he’s going to be able to go cold turkey immediately. little improvements are enough. 

he is getting stronger, he thinks. he will shake it off. the bruises are all in his head.

he is fighting, still, but for himself. for his mother. for everything that comes next. 

*

he thinks he's doing well when it happens. 

"get out of my way!" 

he's shoved, and before he can react properly he catches sight of a rotund cat on _fire_ (!?) and a person running after the cat, pointing at the red-haired boy. 

"please catch him!" they say, breathlessly.

he flings his arms up to dodge being bowled over, watching the boy run. "u--using magic?" 

"whatever, just sock him," the cat--the _talking_ cat!?--demands, and before he knows it a cauldron's flung itself at the boy. “anything! just hurry up!”

his mind goes blank and there's a heavy whack. for a moment, his heart stops. now he's really gone and done it, the headmaster's going to write a letter back and he'll be expelled--

he can imagine the look on his mother's face already.

the boy groans and sits up, rubbing his head; the cauldron rolls away from him with a clank. "argh, can't you just clean those hundred windows on your own?" 

"one hundred windows…? what did you even do to warrant that?" 

the boy glares at him, but it's not vehement--

he's not hurt. 

silently, deuce thanks his lucky stars. it's his new start. he will not mess up.


End file.
